Behind the Facade
by loveislouder94
Summary: Perfection isn't what she imagined it would be. It isn't what she hoped it would be. Perfection isn't real, she knows that now. Warning: self harm


**Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from. I was reading fan fictions earlier and I had the sudden urge to write something. So I opened a Word document, and this is what resulted. It's probably among the worst pieces of drivel I've ever written (the worst being a recent answer to an exam question) but I thought I'd post it anyway, after I spent the time writing it. Let me know what you think…**

Perfection isn't what she imagined it would be. It isn't what she hoped it would be. Perfection isn't perfect grades and perfect lives and a great big trip above the clouds. Perfection isn't best friends and doting Muggle parents.

Perfection isn't real, she knows that now. But still she strives for it. And she finds it, somehow. It isn't a broken mirror, in shards at her feet. She cracked it because she can't bear to look (_You're so ugly, aren't you? Look at that smile. It's not real. It never was. You're pathetic_). It isn't in grades that she's not worthy of. Grades that don't mean something to her, but really should mean everything. (_You're so ungrateful. Perfect Little Princess – what more could you want?)_ It isn't in sitting with her best friends on either side of her, and knowing that sooner or later, this bubble of contentment is going to burst. They protect her, though they don't know it, with their humour and their goodness.

It isn't in the ugly scars all over her legs, the pink marks that take months to fade, and the revulsion that fills her. _(What have you become?)_

She has to stop and she's not quite sure how and she's not quite sure if she wants to and she's not quite sure of anything any more.

She tries to read but the words are a blur on the page. Books – her number one escape, her salvation, have they deserted her too?

She tries to listen when they talk, but she can't hear them. They're muffled behind a wall which only she is aware of. It makes a sad kind of sense, she thinks. She can't hear them, but they've never heard her, screaming, crying, begging. Will this ever end? (_You don't deserve that)._

She tries to respond when they talk to her. The truth is, she can't see the point anymore. They talk of trivial things. Of boys and gossip and Quidditch, and she can't muster up any interest. (_You don't belong. They don't want you here, they never did._)

Her sanity is slipping away. She can feel it, like smoke she tries to hold in her hands. Refusing to stay put, much like her bushy brown hair.

They tried to save her. She knows that. They tried so hard, but it wasn't quite good enough.

It was like a drug – a tiny bit of instant happiness all at the slice of a blade, and oh wasn't that all she ever wanted? Just a taste of that foreign feeling – happiness? She'd found a way to get it and it was amazing. It was wonderful. And she had to stop.

She was clinging, clinging to the shards of her mind, of her very being. It was like rock climbing, only she had no footholds. There was nothing to grab, nothing to keep her here. It wouldn't stop. It never stopped.

She'd promised. She'd promised herself. This time would be last time. (_And you're such a liar, such a failure, _her traitorous thoughts hissed). She'd promised him. She thought lying to him would be harder. She had one drug, and then she had him, her other. She was drawn to him, much like a moth to light, because that's what he was to her: her light. But at the same time, the thought of seeing him made her sick with fear. What if? What if this time, he looked at her and truly _saw? _Saw the truth she tried so hard to hide, all the failures, all the mistakes, all the vulnerability, all those dangerous imperfections. What would she do then? (_Because you know it'll happen one day. One day, he'll see straight through you. And with a single word, a single look, he's going to crush you like a bug.) _The thought made her scared, which made her mad, which made her hate him, because hating him is easier than hating herself.

She would stop, and he wouldn't tell.

But she couldn't stop, so she lied. The words rolled off her tongue as easy as the softest breath. They were silky smooth and black as tar.

"It's over, it's done. I promise."

"Yes, if I ever feel that bad again, I will come and talk to you about it. Yes for goodness' sake, I promise!" The irritation that made her words curl at the end was the only real emotion she'd felt in a long time.

"Oh, that? That was Crookshanks in a bad mood. Those claws of his, they've got a mean scratch!" She even managed a smile for that one. And to her relief, Neville smiled back. He believed her. Or maybe, he didn't want to believe the worst of her.

Now, she sits in a toilet cubicle, tears silently making their way down her face. She takes out her scissors. A wand won't do for this. This isn't something magical, tainted by reminders of what she'll never be. This is hers, and hers alone. The scissors slice across the skin. Once, twice, three times. Tears blur her vision, and all she can see are bright red lines. Bright, red, and somehow beautiful. She exhales, and she smiles because she knows - she's found her perfection.


End file.
